She brushed aside my remark with a flick of her wrist. “Relax. Isabelle says it’s idiot-proof.”

My stifled giggle came out as a snort, and her smile widened. I knew she wasn’t offended. Mom’s cooking efforts were legendary, and not in a good way. She single-handedly made me skeptical any time I saw osso bucco on a restaurant menu, and I’d lost count of the number of times we’d had to order food after she’d set off the smoke detectors. I took small comfort in the fact she was using the stove and not the oven, but I was still wary of the open flame.

“I guess we’ll know in about fourteen minutes,” I said. “You have a backup plan, right?”

“Of course.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a stack of menus. “I’m always prepared for possible contingencies.”

I eyed the pot on the stove. “Maybe we should call for pizza or something. You know, just in case.”

Mom scowled and said, “Have some faith, Talia. Idiot-proof, remember? It’s like the recipe was written with me in mind.”

I crunched into my apple again, wondering if I’d be able to convince her I wasn’t hungry. Maybe if I grab that banana and another apple, I reasoned with myself, I could hold out until ten. Maybe.

“So what’s the occasion?” I said between bites.

“No occasion.”

“You’re home before me, and you’re risking everyone’s health to make dinner.” I took another bite and covered my mouth as I added, “If you’re an alien invader, you’re a pretty convincing imposter, but I’d still like my real mom back.”

She rounded the counter to sit beside me at the breakfast bar. “I talked to Victor,” she said. Her expression was solemn, as it always was when she mentioned her boss.

“Is he actually in town?” I’d met Victor Balian once, just before she’d been offered a partnership to Balian Law a few years ago. He was an older man, maybe in his late sixties, and he seemed like more of a figurehead than a practicing attorney, but maybe that was one of the perks of being the named partner. He was almost never in the office, either, which explained why Mom and the other partners had to spend so much time there.

“Just for today,” Mom said. “He’s heading back to the Bay Area tomorrow. But I, uh, asked to step down as a partner.”

I stopped mid-chew, my eyes wide. She couldn’t have shocked me more if she said she’d bought me a pet zebra. My mother’s career had always been a top priority. She was possessed for sure. “Who are you, really, and what did you do with my mother?”

“He’s not letting me step down,” she said, “so don’t get excited. But I told him Vince’s death was kind of a wake-up call for me, and I feel like I need to reprioritize a few things and balance some stuff out a little better. He said he completely understood.”

“So this means…?”

“It means I’ll be working out of my home office twice a week, and I’m only mentoring one first-year associate now.” Mom was relaxed as she shared this, almost as though she was relieved. She’d often said her job would be much easier if she didn’t have to watch over three first-years on top of her regular workload.

“Did you at least get to choose which one you’re keeping?” Not all their first-year associates were created equal. I gathered that much from her rants, too.

“No,” she said with a quick shake of her head. “But Gail’s spot hasn’t been backfilled yet, even though she’s been gone almost a month. And I guess while I was out last week, Matt decided civil law isn’t what he wants to do, and he’s accepted a job as a deputy district attorney in Santa Barbara.”

“So now there are two openings.”

“Just one, and that person will report to another partner. But Victor won’t backfill Matt’s slot.” When I started to ask why, she added, “He got hired as a favor to Victor’s old law school buddy. It won’t be a loss.”

“Fallyn is mostly self-sufficient, isn’t she?” I said, referring to the third first-year she mentored. “So—”

“So my job just got a thousand times easier,” she finished for me, beaming. “I’d say it was a good day.” She elbowed me and said, “Your turn. How did Mr. Collins like those sketches you’ve been slaving over?” I stared at her in wide-eyed surprise, and she laughed. “I may be your mother, but I’m not as clueless as you think.” She nudged me again. “Come on. We’ve still got ten minutes before we know if we’re ordering in. Tell me about your day.”

“It was….” I started to tell her it was fine, but the day’s disappointments resurfaced and hit me at once. I put my head down on the counter and felt my body crumple. “I’m failing at life,” I said.

Mom didn’t say anything. I moved my head to look at her, and she was watching me, waiting for me to continue.

So I did. I told her how Mr. Collins asked me to create some concepts to show Mrs. Riley for the school musical, how I’d conceptualized something amazing and worked so hard to get it right, and how Mrs. Riley cut it down.

“She stood in front of it and said I wasn’t talented enough,” I said with a pout. “I mean, first she says it’s sophisticated and compelling, and then she goes and insults me.”

Mom pressed her lips together into a thin line and remained silent. Finally, she said, “Mrs. Riley. She’s the drama teacher, right? The one Bianca says is impossible to please?”

I sniffed. “I thought she was exaggerating, but no. Riley’s as bad as she said.”

“How many other students are showing their ideas?”

I sat up straight and considered the question. In previous years, the artwork had only been assigned to a single student, usually a senior. Mr. Collins had never mentioned another student working on Chicago’s poster art, though, and as far as I knew, Mrs. Riley had only reviewed my work that afternoon. “Just me, I think,” I said. “It would’ve been Misty Templeton if she hadn’t been placed on academic probation.”

“And what did Mr. Collins say?”

“Not to focus on the criticism,” I replied.

“That’s sound advice,” she said with an approving nod.

“I have to redo one of the other pieces I submitted before the end of the week,” I said. “And everyone says Mrs. Riley rarely gives second chances.” I could feel the pressures of my Friday deadline creeping up on me, suffocating me like a constrictor coiling around its prey. “If I screw this up….”

Mom patted my shoulder and kissed my temple. “It sounds to me like Mrs. Riley must think you’ve got at least a modicum of talent if she’s liked something well enough to ask you to go back and improve it. And I’m sure she’ll love whatever you present her.”

I was about to tell her how wrong she was when the microwave beeped. Mom slid off her stool to turn it off. If she saw the annoyed look I shot her, she didn’t say anything.

“Here goes,” she said, flipping off the burner, and she lifted the lid in a sweeping gesture.

“It smells good,” I said as she peered into the pot. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“Usually.” She reached into a drawer for a spoon to stir the contents and frowned after a couple of passes. “Oh dear.”

I knew that look. It didn’t bode well when food was involved. “What’s wrong?” I hopped off the stool and rounded the corner to take a peek.

“See?” She tilted the pot toward me. “It’s all stuck to the bottom,” she said with a sigh. “Either ‘idiot-proof’ was a false selling point, or I’ve reached an all-new low.”

I quickly read through the recipe on the counter. “Seriously, Mom? You can nitpick a contract to death, but you can’t follow a recipe?” I shook my head. It looked like she prepped everything correctly, but contrary to how she explained it, this was not a set-and-forget recipe. And certainly not with the burner at high heat the entire time.

It pained me to admit it, especially since it looked like a lot of food was going to waste, but this dinner was unsalvageable.

At least she had her backup plan. We wouldn’t starve. She was already flipping through the stack of menus.